First Sons
by Cat le Fleur
Summary: Familiar players in a familiar game, four strangers are ripped away from everything they knew. Afraid and alone, they are offered guidance and a way home by Tigerstar - under one condition; save the Clans from coming destruction. (Rewrite of Metahuman: Stranger Days)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: events, concepts, and characters throughout _The New Prophecy _are subject to my own interpretation. This is not only a revamp of _Metahuman: Strangers Days, _but also _The New Prophecy _as well.**

* * *

**｢Volume 1: Falling On Black Days｣**

**Chapter 1: Snuffed Out**

His hand was aching, red and tender from rubbing against paper for the past hour and a half. But it would soon be over. All he had to do was this one last equation. He tapped his pen against his lip, glancing up at the clock on the wall as he did so. He had fifteen minutes before the exam ended. That was plenty of time to sit and stare at his question paper, silently hoping for the answer to suddenly pop into his mind.

Ethan absolutely hated physics. Mr. Sharpe made it so fun in Year Eight and Nine even if he found it difficult. But Mrs. McGuire? Sucked the fun right out of it. He would not be sitting it again next year, he was sure of that.

The boy forced himself to pay attention to the question at hand. Even if he was bad at the subject, he had answered every question in the paper thus far. But electricity was his weakest unit in the subject, so of course it would be the final question of the exam.

He looked at the diagram again. It was a bunch of resistors in a series arrangement, their values being displayed just above them. There was a voltage supply, also with its value displayed. They even gave him the current flowing through it.

Except two of the resistors were missing their values.

Yet he was somehow supposed to find out the total resistance of the circuit?

Ethan was snapped out of his daydream by the sound of creaking floorboards, an invigilator walking by him. He hated when they did that. It made him painfully aware that their eyes were on him. Then the invigilator spoke, "ten minutes remaining."

His voice echoed throughout the gymnasium and Ethan's skull. _Stuff it, _he thought, scribbling down what he thought he was supposed to do and gave the two resistors random values in order to find the total resistance. When he was done, he stood up. His chair groaned as its legs dragged across the wooden floor. The sound seeemed to be amplified within the silent gymnasium.

It made Ethan cringe as he took a quick glance around the hall. Was anyone looking at him because of that? He hoped not.

Wordlessly, he packed his things into his bag. Before moving, he surveyed the room. It was uncomfortable how quiet it was. Though, of course, that was due to exam conditions. If there was a peep out of you then you were disqualified. The thick silence was also partly due to the fact that most of the desks were unoccupied. Ethan was one of the last few people to finish up.

He made sure he wrote the necessary details on his paper before he left; his name, school, desk number, and student number. Satisfied, he walked over to the invigilator -an older woman- waiting by the rest of the papers and handed it over to her.

"Thank you." she whispered to him, as not to distract the remaining people taking the exam.

Wordlessly, the boy offered a polite smile. Before Ethan left, he remembered to lift his phone from the basket, a Nokia flip-phone, and put it in his trouser pocket. He allowed relief to wash over him as he exited the gymnasium and into the outside world, feeling the warm glow of the summer sun. It was time to unwind.

Normally, the weather was gloomy and grey. So it was a nice change to walk into the sunshine. Even with his school uniform on, it wasn't too warm. He was silently thankful about that, not having to worry about sweating and being paranoid about smelling.

Then he saw them, his friends; Fraser, Mark, and Cameron. They were leaning against the metal railing separating the pavement from the road, chatting to one another.

All three of them were around a similar height, of six feet. Fraser and Cameron both shared a similar build, the former leaning towards the slimmer end of the spectrum. Mark was on the burlier side.

As for Ethan, he couldn't have contrasted more if he tried. Skinny, freckled, with soft features, and standing at 5'6, he was clearly the epitome of masculinity.

"Alright troops." He ran up to them.

The three turned to him. "Alright Ethan, how'd you find that?" Fraser asked.

He shrugged trying to downplay how difficult he really found the exam. "It was fine I guess. Bloody hate physics, though." He huffed, fidgeting with his blonde hair.

"We know, you've moaned the whole year about it." Mark chimed in.

"Yeah, we've both got Mrs. McGuire though." Cameron added.

"Oh yeah, I had her in Sixth and Seventh Year and she was shite." Confirmed Fraser.

"Hey what'd you get for that last question, Fraser?" Cameron inquired.

"I put down four thousand ohms, I think."

Ethan's heart sank. He didn't get anything close to that. "Oh. . .I got fifteen hundred."

All three of his friends looked at him like he was an idiot. To be honest, he would feel like one even without the looks. Thinking back on the values given for the resistors, voltage, and current, it was easy to see the total resistance would be higher than the answer he had given.

Well, hopefully he would still get follow-through marks for the equation.

"I-I'm not good at physics." He added in a weak attempt to excuse himself.

"We know." Replied Mark.

"Shush you." Ethan muttered as both Cameron and Fraser chuckled. Unanimously and without a word, they began walking. They passed through the school gates soon after, free from the clutches of education once again. "It's definitely a fail, though. There's no way I passed that."

"You'll be fine!" responded Fraser. "Stop stressing, Ethan."

"Did you hear Chloe's leaving?" Mark inquired.

Cameron suddenly turned to him with a sparkle in his eyes. "She is?" He asked.

_Thank God, _Ethan thought, stuffing his maroon blazer into his backpack as they passed the threshold of the school gates. The boy turned around, taking one last look at the pristinely modern architecture of his school. Finally, he was free.

"Yeah, she's leaving after exams." Responded Fraser. "Thank Christ too, it's impossible to actually concentrate with her arguing with fucking every single teacher."

"Remember she called Mr. Anderson a nonce?" chimed in Mark.

Cameron laughed. "She got into so much shit for that."

"Right enough." Ethan added.

"Yeah," agreed Fraser. "But you know what she's like. You could eat a kit-kat wrong and you're a nonce."

Mark added. "To be fair, if you're _not _eating a kit-kat one stick at a time you're probably a bad man."

The four shared a laugh. Briefly, Ethan wondered what the summer - and then the new school year - would bring him. His braces would be coming out in a month's time, which he was looking forward to. Without thinking, he ran his tongue over them. No longer would he have to pick out gunk from them or ruin toothbrushes. There was already plenty that had gone in the bin.

Ethan allowed his lips to curl into small smile. He finally had free time again, too. There was no need to stress about exams anymore, not until his results came in anyways, or study for hours upon hours a day. But until then, he was determined to make the most of the summer. Even now, with the warm of the sun against his skin, he couldn't wait to get started.

"Do any of you want to go out and do something?" He suddenly asked, turning to his friends as they walked. "Or do you already have plans."

His friends look at each other. "Sure. What's the plan?" Fraser asked.

Ethan faltered for a second, before shrugging his shoulders with a grin on his face. "I dunno, just go and mess about I guess."

"I don't want to carry my bag around, though." Complained Mark. His bag, its straps falling down his arms, idly swung as they walked. Ethan couldn't blame him though, he could feel the sweat pooling on his back underneath his bag as they walked. It made him shiver with disgust.

"Yeah, sure. I don't want to carry mines, either." He admitted. "I want to get changed, too. Do you guys want to meet up at the park in, like, an hour's time?"

There was nods of agreements and group began to depart. As Ethan was about to place one foot onto the road, he heard Cameron call out to him.

"Watch!"

Quickly, Ethan jumped back onto the pavement as a car whizzed by. His heart lept into his throat. Just as quickly as the sudden shot of fright, relief washed over and soothed him. That was a close one. "Jesus Christ, Ethan, do you want to watch where you're going?!" Cameron snapped.

"I didn't get ran over, at least." Ethan weakly defended himself.

"Yeah, last time you got ran over by a bus!"

He grimaced at the memory. It was difficult to describe the sensation he felt when a cold wall of steel slammed right into his side going thirty miles per hour. The only good thing to come out of that incident was the time taken off of school and a free bus pass. Though, the former bit him in the backside when he had to catch up with schoolwork he had missed.

Then something occurred to him.

"You know, it's mental how I only got bruises from that. Didn't even break a bone or anything." Mused Ethan.

Cameron's features twisted in confusion. "That's all? But you were off for ages!"

"I milked it, to be honest."

"Fair enough. I would as well if I was ran over by a bus," he chuckled. "Didn't the company send you a lifetime pass or something like that?"

"Yeah, like 'we're awfully sorry we hit you, here's a free pass for life. Please don't sue us,'" Ethan responded. "At least, I think that's why they did it."

Cameron laughed. "That's mint, though."

"I suppose so. Definitely makes getting to school easier - and going to HMV to pick up that new Gorillaz album."

"Oh yeah! When does Demon Days come out again?"

"The twenty third, I think?"

"We should definitely do, like, a listening party or something."

"Definitely. See you later, then."

With that, they departed. Ethan crossed the road, looking both ways as he did this time. The quickest way home for him was through the park. It was a large, flat expanse of grass and trees with paths snaking through it. There was playground as well, with colourful plastic slides and climbing frames.

He strolled through the park, his bag hanging off one of his shoulders. He saw a couple of primary school kids playing in the grass as he walked, chasing one another with water guns. Their laughter and delighted squeals filled the air.

Suddenly, the boy found himself stumbling as he bumped into someone. As Ethan regained his footing, he felt worry gnaw at him. He hoped that, whoever it was, wasn't about to cuss him out or get aggressive. It was just an accident of course - but not everyone cared about that.

"Sorry! You okay there?" The stranger asked.

While relief washed over him, so did surprise. The first thing Ethan immediately noticed was the stranger's accent. It was American, though he wasn't sure where from. The owner of the voice was a man, towering over him, with black hair and green eyes. The boy immediately felt intimidated. The man looked like he could snap him like a brittle twig.

"Um, yes. I-I'm fine, thanks." Ethan responded sheepishly. His tension seemed to dissipate at the stranger's friendly demeanour. "Are you on holiday?" There was a slight hint of suspicion in his voice. What was this guy doing near a high school?

The stranger's brow furrowed in confusion. "Holiday? Oh, you mean vacation! Yeah, I'm visiting family. Could you tell me where the nearest train station is? I gotta get to London."

Ethan was struck with confusion, wondering why this man was in Canterbury if he had family in London. He felt another pang of worry, too, knowing that his features would have shown how he was feeling. Hopefully he wouldn't get confrontation. "How come you're in Canterbury then?" He asked. "I-I-If you don't mind me asking." Ethan added quickly.

"I'm just sightseeing, y'know?"

"Ah, okay then. For the train station you want to get on that street there," he started, pointing at the street he had once been on. "Keep going straight, then take a left, keep going straight again and you'll eventually see the sign for it."

"Thanks, man." The stranger responded with a smile, stretching out his hand.

Ethan awkwardly took it, shaking his hand. "Yeah, um, you're welcome."

With that, the man waved him goodbye and walked off. Ethan continued on, strolling off of the pavement and onto a beaten path. He was surrounded by oak trees, towering high above him. Their leaves rustled in the summer breeze. Strewn around were empty cans, wrappers, and styrofoam containers with half-eaten food. He grimaced with disgust. Some people were just too lazy to carry things to a bin.

Yet, he took in the scenery around him. It wasn't often he got to walk down this path by himself, as he was usually surrounded by other students on their way home. It was serene and peaceful. Ethan listened as a soft breeze rustled through the leaves above. Come Autumn he should definitely hang back after school finished, just to see all the warm colours and hear the fallen leaves crunch underneath his trainers. He continued on in a day dream, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

Until something heavy hit him in the back.

He gasped in pain, stumbling forward and almost falling as his heart quickened. His mind was racing. Was he about to get jumped? Whatever hit him felt like a brick. How many people was there? Should he try to fight them, despite the fact it could be more than one person? Should he just run instead?

His body felt hot, like he had been suddenly struck with a fever. Ethan's heart felt like was beating against his ribs. His hands felt like they were burning and the sensation was creeping throughout his entire body; his feet, his chest, his face all felt like they were melting.

This strange sensation was suddenly overridden by a new one; pain. White hot pain lit up his nerves as something tore through his body. Something like little insects eating through his flesh, his muscle, and anything else in their path.

Ethan fell to the ground, dead. A pool of crimson blood seeped out from beneath him.

...

"That's one down."

"Where's the next?"

"Paris, France. I got us two tickets to see him, I heard his band is actually pretty good, too."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Backsliders**

Louvel tapped on the microphone, hearing it ring out into the empty club. "(Testing, one, two, three.)" He spoke. He looked towards the technician across the room, giving him a thumbs up in approval. He then moved away from the microphone, sitting down on a nearby stool and picking up his guitar. He always felt a surge of pride whenever he held it.

It was a fender jazzmaster and his first ever electric guitar. The same kind that anyone could buy out of any shop. Though what made it special was its pickups. Rather than using ones already inside the guitar, Louvel had opened up its body and replaced them over the years. The end result was the perfect guitar in his eyes. It wasn't just a fender guitar - it was his guitar.

It's age was showing, too. The grey paint across the body was chipping away and the stickers across it were tearing away, the once pristine, white pick guard was fading to an ugly yellow. Even the guitar's head was wearing away and he would soon have to replace it. However, the guitar itself would see use until it was inoperable. Louvel had used it to record their album, EPs, and used it during their tour. This was their final show, ending in his Paris - his home - and he was determined to end the tour with a bang.

The musician plugged it into a nearby amp, strumming a few chords and letting them ring out. He frowned, noticing that the tone was all wrong. It was far too clean-sounding. Louvel adjusted the amp's knobs, looking for the Nirvana-like tone he loved so much. After finding the right settings, he played a simple power chord. The amp responded with a distorted screech.

Cursing, he scrambled to turn the amp off.

Louvel heard the bassist, Jacques, laughing behind him.

"(Lou, what the fuck was that about?)" Pierre, the lead guitarist, asked. Like himself, Pierre was sitting on a stool with his guitar in his lap and a cigarette in his mouth.

He gave his amp a light kick. "(I think it's fucked.)" Louvel replied. He looked at the amp sitting on top of the faulty one. Hopefully that was alright. After switching their positions and trying it out, he got the exact tone he was looking for. Thinking the problem was solved, he plugged the faulty one in. However, it began its distorted screaming again. "(It's fucked.)" he confirmed.

"(Just go out an use the spare one then.)" Sophia chimed in from behind her drum set.

Jacques responded, gesturing to his own amp, "(I'm using the spare amp.)"

Louvel sighed, lighting a cigarette and taking a quick drag to calm himself. He needed a second amp. Otherwise, Pierre's guitar would drown his own out. Considering that Louvel was the rhythm guitarist, that was a big problem. He despised the idea of their band, Backsliders, giving a sub-par performance. It didn't matter what the size of the crowd was, Louvel would play the same show for fifty people as he would for fifty thousand people.

But fortunately, an idea struck him and he turned to the technician who was across the room. "(Do you guys have any spare amps?)" He asked.

"(Yeah, we have a Fender '65 Twin Reverb in storage.)" Replied the technician.

Louvel paused for a second, glancing at his band mates. Who just _had _an amp _that_ expensive and placed in storage? It was criminal. "(Bring it out.)" He said. After Louvel acquired the amp, he plugged it in and adjusted the values. After giving it a quick try, he knew he was in love. Its tone was perfect.

And after some fine tuning, Backsliders was ready to perform.

An hour later, the concert started and opened with their supporting act. A punk band also native to Paris, Seek Destroy. One thing Louvel loved about them was that they knew how to whip the crowd into a frenzy. After the supporting act, it was their turn.

Only two hours ago, the club was totally empty. Now, it was packed with people. It was dark, save for the purple lights illuminating the stage. After some last minute adjustments to their gear, Backsliders began their set list. Each individual member gave their all; Jacques' bass was thick and heavy as he jumped around the stage like a lunatic, the same could be said about Pierre, Sophia was an absolute monster on drums, and Louvel gave his best vocal performance. In between each song, the crowd went wild, giving frenzied cheers.

Louvel knew that tomorrow he would barely be able to speak, but he could live with that. And when he wasn't singing, he was bringing his usual swagger to the instrumentals. The vocalist walked around the stage like he owned it because, in that moment, he did.

It didn't feel like any time had passed before their concert was almost over. There was only one song left to play for their encore. Drenched in sweat, Louvel swept his long, wet hair out of his face. Taking a quick look at the other members, he could see their clothes were also damp with sweat and alcohol. The stage lights didn't help either.

"(This is the last song of the night. Fuck you all.)" He panted into the microphone, ignoring the few boos that came from the crowd. Just before they started playing, the vocalist removed his patch-covered, denim jacket and threw it behind him. It landed in a crumpled heap. It helped cool him down a little, however he still felt he was on the brink of melting into a puddle of sweat.

Louvel rasped his knuckles on the back of his guitar, letting the sound it created ring out for a few seconds before playing the opening rift. By this point, a few people recognised which song they were playing and screamed in excitement.

After a few seconds, Louise joined him with a drum roll.

More people caught on.

She was followed by Jacques' heavy bass.

Louvel could barely hear his band over the ecstatic crowd.

Then Pierre finally joined them.

Their cover of Nirvana's Breed was in full swing now. The reinvigorated guitarists were jumping and stumbling around the stage, more wild than ever before. Their energy was picked up by the crowd as those closest to the stage began moshing. Still playing, Louvel leaned closer to the microphone and began to sing. His voice was more raspy than before, which was especially noticeable on certain parts of the song.

After the last of the vocals, Louvel moved backwards. He took the whammy bar of his guitar and just went to town, pushing it over the strings and towards the body of the guitar. The outcome was a continuous, droning moan that was constantly shifted pitch and tone - it never stayed the same. The rest of the band followed, playing random chords as Louise hammered on her drums. Despite the chaotic sound, it was somehow uniform.

Then - to end the show - Louvel played a single power chord.

The crowd went ballistic, clapping and cheering and whooping. Louvel stood there, panting heavily and holding his guitar loosely. He stated up to the microphone, sweeping his hair backwards. "(That was Breed by Nirvana. They're really underground, you've probably never heard of them.)" He said dryly, a small smirk on his face.

After the show, the band began to put their equipment back into the van. As Louvel was the only one who hadn't been drinking, he was the designated driver. Jacques and Pierre had put away the first lot of amps, coming back for the remaining ones. The vocalist handed the bassist the Fender amp, the one the technician gave him, "(here.)" He said.

As soon as Jacques realised what was going on, he grinned.

Louvel picked up the faulty amp by its handle, handing it over to a technician. He made certain that it wasn't the same guy who had given it to him in the first place. "(Thanks for letting us borrow the amp, you're lifesavers.)"

"(It's no problem, man.)"

After all the amps were in the van, the instruments and pedals were placed inside and the side door was shut. Louvel opened the driver's door when someone shouted on him. "Hey!"

For a split second, he froze, thinking one of the technicians realised Louvel had swapped their amps. But he quickly relaxed upon realising the voice was in English. He turned around, seeing two men standing against a brick wall, each eating some street food.

The first one was tall, a few centimetres taller than himself. He had black hair and green eyes. The second one was much shorter, probably standing at 170-odd centimetres. He had chin-length hair - much like Louvel's own - that was platinum blonde in colour. He was wearing one of his band's t-shirts.

"You guys killed it in there!" The taller one shouted, "awesome show!"

Louvel responded in English, "thank you." he gave him a thumbs up before he got in the van. He briefly wondered if the tall one, clearly an American, had flew his way over to France just to see them. But the more likely scenario is the short one dragged him along. Maybe it was a friend he was visiting, or maybe something more.

Louvel and Sophia sat in the front, with Jacques and Pierre in the back as they set off. The bassist laughed hysterically, tears in his eyes "(I can't believe you stole the fucking amp!)"

Louise sniggered as Pierre did a double take, looking back at their equipment. "(Holy shit.)" He muttered, "(well, we can't ever play there again.)" Pierre added with an explosive sigh.

"(I mean, that's a really expensive amp - who the fuck just _leaves _that in storage?)" Justified the vocalist. "(It's fucking criminal.)"

"(I'll drink to that.)" Sophia commented.

Jacques just giggled from the back seat, leaning backwards and clasping his hands together. Pierre turned to him, "(why is this so funny to you?)"

The bassist just shrugged his shoulders, an amused grin plastered on his face. "(I dunno. It's just funny.)" He replied.

(Oh yeah,)" started Sophia, "(who were those guys you were talking to, Lou?)" She asked.

Louvel replied, "(Fans, I think. I guess we're getting more known because one of them was American.)"

"(Really?)" Pierre asked, a mix of wonder and surprise in his voice. Then, something dawned on him which brought out an edge of irritation in his voice, "(I bet it was because of that fucking show we did in Orléans.)"

The vocalist laughed, "(or the one where I got glassed.)"

Those two infamous concerts had been back to back, both being the result of Louvel's tendencies to antagonise and aggravate those he didn't agree with. The Orléans show simply resulted in them being kicked out of the club after he wore a gay pride shirt to antagonise the owner. They played out on the street instead, only earning money through sold merch and ticket sales. Louvel was fine with that, though - he didn't want that guy's money.

The next concert afterwards in Bourges? It ended with Louvel taking an empty beer bottle to the face where it shattered after aggravating a heckler throwing homophobic slurs at him. Miraculously, it only left a few cuts and scratches rather than slicing his face open as it should have. Clearly, Pierre wanted him to be more reserved. He briefly wondered if Sophia or Jacques felt the same. He was playing a dangerous game, after all - he learned that the hard way. Still, it was worth it.

"(Pints?)" Louvel suddenly asked.

"(Pints.)" The rest of the band replied in unison.

...

Louvel brought the glasses to the table, three pints of beer and one glass of wine, and sat them down; the three beers for himself, Jacques, and Louise, and the glass of red wine for Pierre. "À ta santé!" He smiled, clinking his glass with each of theirs. In the middle of their table, an old thing with one leg shorter than the rest, sat an ash tray with two still-lit cigarettes.

"(To your health, guys.)" Sophia smiled, doing much the same.

Jacques grinned. "(chin chin.)" He said, following the other two's lead.

Pierre was last, raising his glass during his toast and afterwards. "Santé." He said simply.

They all took the first sip of their drinks. Louvel loved this beer. It was so smooth, went down easy, and was just the right amount of bitter. This bar was the only place he would drink the stuff, any other place and it had a funny aftertaste. He wasn't what this place did differently, but he hoped they would keep doing it indefinitely. If it did change, then he would simply not come back.

The one beer was the only thing he came for. The bar itself wasn't that great, even if it was popular with older gentlemen, with cheap interior decoration and a faint musty smell in the air. There were old radiators peppered throughout the space though they didn't do anything about the chill. The music they played was whatever was on the top forty radio - which he despised.

If Louvel had to listen to Un Monde Parfait one more time he would break something.

But the vocalist couldn't complain about the stink of ash or tobacco, though. He was part of the problem in that regard.

He picked his cigarette from the ash tray, giving it a quick drag. "(You know, I cannot believe how fucking quick this has all been.)" He reflected.

The bassist nodded, taking another swig of his beer. "(I know, right? I mean, how long ago was it we were in her garage,)" he said, pointing to Sophia. "(Jamming to Nirvana and Operation Ivy and shit after work. Now here we are, just finished a tour around the country.)" He finished with an accomplished grin plastered on his face.

Jacques was right. Backsliders had formed around a year and a half ago, covering grunge and punk songs before they began making their own material. Success had come quick and Louvel didn't think it was going to stop anytime soon. "(See, that guy I talked to was American. I think we could talk Thomas into setting up a US tour.)" Louvel replied.

Pierre shook his head, "(I dunno. I'd rather do a Europe tour first.)" Suddenly, he looked towards Louvel before then focusing on something behind him.

Someone tapped the vocalist on the shoulder. He turned around, finding the bartender standing behind him. "(Are you Louvel?)" She asked.

He nodded.

"(There's someone outside for you.)"

Louvel gave a confused glance to the rest of his band, who looked just as confused as him. "(Did they say who they were?)" He inquiried. Nobody had made plans to met up with other friends, so who could it be?

Perhaps it was a fan. If that was the case, Louvel wouldn't be too happy. He wanted to relax and have a beer uninterrupted.

"(Yeah, he said his name was Patrick.)"

"(Oh, Patrick!)" He smiled. He turned to the rest of the group, "(did you guys know he was back in town?)"

They shook their heads.

"(Yeah, I'll go get him. Thanks.)" Louvel told the bartender, taking a quick drag on his cigarette before getting up from his chair. He made his way across the bar, exiting through the front door. The cool night air was a welcomed change from the somewhat stuffy, smokey bar. Outside, however, Patrick was nowhere to be found.

"(Patrick, are you there?)" Louvel called out, looking around. Suddenly, there was a noise from the nearby alley. It was a violent crash, followed by a thud as something hit the concrete. Quickly, he turned the corner and ventured further into the alley. It was dark and dingy, he grimaced at the sour stench of the place.

"(Hey Patrick, are you-)"

He suddenly stumbled, having hit his foot off of something. For a second he thought it was a brick, but its surface felt far too uneven to be one - even a broken one. Louvel looked down. At his feet was a lump of metal. It was fairly large, with a strange appearance. It looked like it was covered in soot.

Louvel had never seen anything like it before. Out of curiosity, he picked it up with both hands to examine it further. Suddenly, his skin felt like it was burning and he dropped the metal. It landed with a loud thud. The vocalist cursed, balling his hands into tight fists. It felt like had had just placed both of his hands of a stovetop.

All of a sudden, his body felt light as a feather and he could smell smoke. It was such an odd sensation, like his body was breaking apart and he was being pulled. Louvel then gasped in pain, stumbling backwards and leaning against a wall for support. A sharp pain had erupted from his chest, unlike anything he had felt before. He placed a hand over his chest, pulling it back and finding his palm covered in blood.

Louvel slid down the wall, landing in a crumpled heap on the ground. He didn't understand why all his strength had suddenly left him or why he felt so exhausted. Just before he closed his eyes, slumping over in the alley.

Had he just been shot? He wondered before going gently into that good night.

...

"Only two more to go."

"You know, I don't trust him."

"Why not?"

"How do we know we're not just picking random people off? How do we know he's holding up his end of the deal?"

"We just have to have faith in him. Like, what does he gain from lying to us?"

"Not much, I suppose. Still, there's something up."

"We can't fix things here, the world's been broken for far too long, but by doing this we can actually make things _work!_ I just wish it didn't need to be so. . .violent, though. If there was some other way to do this, he would've told us."

"...So where's the next one."

"Moscow."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Post-Soviet**

Íosif frowned, looking at the bottle of wine in his gift bag. It was some cheap, supermarket brand but it would hopefully be enough. It was all he could afford at the moment. He stared up at the Khrushchyovka in all its ugly, depressing glory.

As horrible as its appearance was, Íosif couldn't help but feel pangs of envy for Alex. He would've loved to have his own place - even if it was in this dreary place - rather than live at home or with roommates like his other friends did, but alas it would cost far too much.

He had been here a few time before and not once had he felt at all safe. But that was more to do with how derelict and empty the housing blocks looked rather than who lived in them. As a university was nearby, there was a fairly large community of students who lived here. What made this Khrushchyovka so attractive to them was that it costed half the price for rent than it did at the university.

Íosif decided he'd had enough gawking at the housing block, checking his watch. There was five minutes left until the little get together started, by the time he got to Alex's apartment he would be right on time. He, and a couple of friends, had been invited over to celebrate finishing up university for the summer. To be honest, Íosif was glad it was over for now. He had always been one to get worked up over exams, always striving to achieve the highest mark possible.

Making his way to the front door, he pressed on the buzzer that correlated with Alex's apartment number, seventy five, and waited for a few second before the speaker buzzed. "(Hello?)" a feminine voice spoke.

He constantly forgot how bad the speaker's quality was. It was so grainy that the voice on the other end was barely coherent. "(Hi, Alex. It's Íosif.)" he greeted.

Just then, the door to the apartment complex unlocked and Iosif was able to enter. He opted to take the stairs and the click of his heels echoed throughout the empty stairwell. It was a bit of a trek but he didn't trust the rickety old elevator. He recalled how Alex got stuck in it one time. Iosif didn't plan on being next. Eventually, he got to Alex's floor and there she was, standing outside her front door in the dimly-lit hallway. She gave a smile when she noticed him, "(Íosif!)"

He gave a small smile and held up the gift bag. "(I brought you something.)"

"(Oh, you shouldn't have!)" she replied with a polite tone.

Íosif gave a slight smile. "(No, I insist! It's yours.)"

"(Thank you. Now, come inside.)"

He opened the door for the hostess, entering after her. The door itself was worn down, with its red paint chipping and flaking and its rusty handle. Standing on the doormat, he took of his chelsea boots and hung up his coat. Íosif gave Alex a smile of gratitude as he accepted a pair of slippers from her. From the hallway, he entered the living room.

Just before he did, he took a second to check in the mirror that he was presentable. Taking a moment, he ran his fingers through his light blond hair and adjusted the collar of his shirt. Though Íosif was having second thoughts about his facial hair. It was just stubble, most of the hair being on his lip and chin. That would have been fine - had his hair not been so light in colour. To him, it looked as patchy as preteen's. Perhaps he should have shaved it all off, then grown it in again at a later date. It just looked scruffy and it didn't compliment his angular features too well either.

"(You look fine.)" Alex reassured him.

He answered hesitantly, "(if you say so.)" Before walking into the living room.

It was sparsely decorated, with two cheap sofas, a lamp, and a coffee table on which a small television sat. The walls were covered with a cheap, sickly green wallpaper. There were no windows in the living room. The most expensive thing in the room was the rug, which he recalled was a family heirloom of Alex's. On the sofas sat people he knew and someone he didn't.

A long time friend of his, Boris, stood up and offered him a friendly grin which he returned. They embraced one another in a tight hug, patting each other on the back "(Borya! How are you?)" Greeted Íosif.

"(I'm good. Have you been taking care of yourself, big man?)"

"(Now that my exams are over, yeah!)"

The two of them shared a laugh before he moved to greet the rest of the group. For those he knew well, he gave them a warm hug which was gladly accepted. Then he approached the man he didn't know, giving him a firm handshake. "(Hi, it's nice to meet you. I'm Íosif Sergeevich.)" Íosif greeted.

"(Roman Mikhailovich.)" he introduced himself, "(I'm Alex's boyfriend.)"

In a social gathering, full of people Íosif called by their first name, he made a mental note to address Roman with both his first name and middle name. Patronymics, and addressing acquaintances, colleagues, and professors by them were important. He wanted to make a good impression.

"(You can leave that in the kitchen, Íosif, and I'll get it in a minute.)" Alex told him, pointing to his gift. He nodded in return, entering the kitchen. On the cheaply-laminated countertop, there was four one litre bottles of vodka and next to them was a platter of snacks; kholodets, pelmeni, black bread, and the like. Next to them were shot glasses, enough for everyone present.

_(I'm going to be here for a long while, it looks.) _Íosif mused. The night was never over until each bottle was completely finished. However, he had doubts that he would stay for the full party. The last time Íosif drank that much, it resulted in a nasty, nasty fall down two flights of stairs and smacking his head off of metal railing.

By some divine intervention, Íosif was completely fine. He just had a bit of a sore head.

...As well as a killer hangover the next day.

After sitting down the wine, Íosif left the kitchen and joined everyone in the living room and socialised. Soon afterwards, Alex began pouring shots of straight vodka for them. After a short toast, Íosif knocked the shot back and savoured the warm sensation that was left in both his throat and belly. It was nice to see old friends again, especially considering they had gone their seperate ways after high school. It was always a pleasant surprise to find that, occasionally, those seperate paths converged once again.

"(So, Borya, how's Nikolai been keeping?)" Íosif inquired.

At the mention of Nicholas, Alex perked up. (Oh, yeah, I remember Nikolai Ivanovich! He was a sweetheart.)" She commented.

Boris answered, "(Koyla? He dropped out of university last month. Wasn't enjoying it, he said.)"

Íosif's eyes widened in surprise. "(He did? That was stupid of him.)"

"(University isn't the end-all, be-all, Íosif.)" His friend responded. Alex nodded in agreement.

"(I know, but what's he going to do with himself? Surely it's better to stick it out than just drop out. He only had a year left of his course, no?)" he responded.

"(He got an engineering apprenticeship.)"

Alex interjected, "(good for him.)"

Íosif nodded in agreement, "(my parents would kill me if I dropped out.)" He commented. Suddenly, he noticed music was playing from the kitchen. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was enchanting, grabbing his attention in a vice grip. The vocals, he noticed, were in english.

He decided to investigate, walking into the kitchen to find Roman. He was standing next to a CD player and pouring himself a drink.

"(Hey, Roman Mikhailovich,)" Íosif called from the doorway.

He looked up at him.

"(What muisc is that? I've never heard it before.)"

"(Oh, this?)" Roman replied, "(it's Surfer Rosa by Pixies.)"

Íosif began pouring himself a drink and took a sip. "(How the hell did you manage to get a hold of that?)"

"(Payed customs and all that, costed me a fucking ton.)" He grimaced. "(Well worth it, though.)"

Íosif wasn't surprised in the least. After all, Russia was still recovering from the financial crash of 1998, dubbed the Russian Flu by some, where the Russian ruble has been greatly devalued. Though, even in 2005, the fallout of the crisis still lingered. An example would be the price of commodities, which had initially shot up though had gradually decreased over the course of years. Still, things could get expensive.

With all of that in mind, Íosif concluded that either Roman was fairly wealthy or he was just that big of a fan of western music. He, himself, wasn't that interested in music. Sure, he wouldn't complain so long as he didn't find the muisc too abrasive but he really preferred reading; true crime, sci-fi, politics, anything would do. Íosif had made so much use of his university's library that he was on a first name basis with the librarian.

"(It _is _some interesting music,)" he commented, "(do you speak any English? Or do the lyrics not matter to you? Like, you only care about the instrumentals. )"

Roman nodded, "(I think both play a pretty big part. I mean, having either bad instruments or bad vocals can ruin a song if you asked me. I had a friend introduce me to this EP by some band called Backsliders from France, their actual music was good but vocals weren't my thing. Too raw-sounding.)" There was a look in his eye, like suddenly remembered something. "Oh! I speak some pretty good English, too." he replied with a smirk.

He immediately noticed his accent in English. It had a strong American element to it, though Íosif could hear a little bit of Russian in there - just enough to tell you that English was his second language. "You're not the only one." he responded, "your accent is very American though, did you live over there?"

"Yes, I did. I took a gap year in 2001 and went over to America," explained Roman, "what about you? You have great English."

"Thank you," Íosif replied, "I was just really good at English throughout school and kept at it, I picked up books in English in my free time, and my father knew English. It helped me a lot."

Their conversation didn't get to continue as more people poured into the kitchen until it was nearly packed. "(Hiding away in the kitchen, eh?)" Boris asked playfully.

"(The kitchen is the one place you can say whatever you want, Borya!)" Íosif responded with a smile, arms outstretched. During the communist party's rule, the kitchen was considered the least likely place to be bugged. Naturally, it became the safe haven where anyone could speak their mind uncensored and without fear of being labelled a dissenter. Íosif found that his most cherished memories had been spent in a kitchen, surrounded by family or friends.

The night continued on, full of drinking, laughing until it hurt, singing, and hugging his dear friends so hard he thought he might crack their bones. There was a scent of smoke in the air as Alex and Roman had a cigarette. All of this, set to music from the west, made Íosif think he would never have a night like this again. Something about it was special. He felt it in his bones.

Íosif leaned back against the countertop, a large smile spread across his face.

"(What're you smiling for?)" Boris asked, his speech slurred.

He looked at him, saying nothing is response. Instead, he flicked his finger underneath his chin.

His friend giggled, copying his action. "(Me too, buddy.)"

Íosif poured himself one last shot of vodka. He was planning to go home after this, knowing he had work early tomorrow morning. Hopefully, he wouldn't be too rough in the morning. Though, it seemed Boris had sensed his intentions.

"(Going soon?)" he asked.

He replied with a sigh, "(yeah, I've got work tomorrow.)"

Like his friend, his speech was slurred. Though, not as heavily as Boris'.

"(Man, fuck your work. Stay a little bit longer!)"

"(It's already midnight, Borya! I gotta go.)"

Boris huffed in response, almost pouting like a child.

"(Don't be a baby!)" Íosif muttered. He stopped leaning on the countertop, standing at his full height of 186 centimeters. The tallest in the room. He called over to Alex, "(do you mind if I make a quick toast? I'm leaving soon.)"

She responded enthusiastically, "(go for it!)"

Without hesitation, he raised his shot glass into the air. "(To our friendship!)" He cheered, a drunken grin on his face.

"(To our friendship!)" They responded, raising their own glasses.

Íosif knocked back his shot in response, again feeling it burn his throat and belly. Before he left, he said goodbye to everyone present, giving everyone a bear hug - with the exception of Roman. He gave him a firm handshake and a dumb smile, telling him it was nice to see him. At the doorway of the house, he gave back his slippers to Alex before putting back on his boots and his coat and thanked her for her hospitality.

"(You should phone for a taxi, Íosif. It's pretty late out.)" She said.

He replied with a wave of his hand. "(Nah, it's a waste of money when I have my bus ticket. The next one comes soon.)"

Alex frowned. "(You know what the buses are like, though. You should just get a taxi.)"

Again, he dismissed her. "(I'll be fine!)"

"(Well, okay,)" she sighed. Alex leaned forward, embracing him and giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "(Take care, you.)"

"(You too.)" he responded before suddenly realised they were at a threshold. Íosif pulled away, "(we shouldn't have done that, we're at a doorway,)" he pointed out, "(we've got bad luck now.)"

The hostess laughed. "(That's just an old superstition!)"

"(Not if something bad happens to me on the way home.)" he smirked, walking away.

"(Get a taxi, then!)"

"(I'll be fine, I was joking! Anyways, goodnight!)"

"(Goodnight!)"

With that, Alex closed her front door and Íosif walked down the dim hallway and down the stairs. He made sure to hold onto the railing on his way down, having learned his lesson from last time. He exited the Khrushchyovka soon thereafter, walking down the street. It was pitch black, save for the pale yellow of the street lights. There was not a single living soul out, only himself. The only company Íosif had was the soft howl of the wind.

The only signs of life were the odd apartments with their lights on. People having parties, most likely celebrating the end of exams and making toasts to their future endeavours if they were students. There was a light breeze, pleasantly cool, as he walked along the cracked and damaged pavement before reaching the bus stop and sat on the bench. He looked into the darkness of the night, hoping to see headlights peering back at him. Then he checked the timetable attached to a street light. The next bus was in ten minutes.

Though Íosif knew better; the bus would come when it came.

In the meantime, he could only wait.

He looked up into the night sky, admiring the many stars above. It was a beautiful, clear night out. Maybe when he got home, he would sit outside for a little while. If his father was still up, they could have a beer together and talk about life, death, and everything in between. Íosif was sure that the second he mentioned the kitchen, his father would have a story or two to tell from the Soviet-era, either about himself or his grandparents.

Suddenly, there was a thud as something hit the concrete pavement. It sounded like it had been thrown. Thinking quickly, Íosif reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his copy of Roadside Picnic, flicking to a random page and began reading. He may be intoxicated, but he certainly didn't want to deal with any other drunks.

He read for a few minutes, waiting to see if anything else would happen. But nobody approached him or tried to talk to or harass him. Íosif found it strange, considering he was certain someone just tried to throw something at him. If someone was looking for a fight, then why stop at a missed throw?

Íosif looked up from his book, scanning his surroundings. Nobody was there. Nobody was walking off into the darkness. There was no drunkard staring him down from across the street with an angry glare. There was nothing.

Except some rock, sitting a few meters away from him.

Íosif frowned. It looked like someone had thrown something at him. Whoever did it had clearly ran away, so he went back to his book. Until something registered with him.

Rocks weren't shiny. They didn't reflect light.

From his position on the bench, he again looked back at the object. Just as he thought, it was reflecting the pale amber of the street light off its surface. Curiosity swept over him like a wave. Just what was it? Was it a hunk of metal? Íosif got up, walking over to the object, picking it up and inspecting it.

From its weight in his hand and its cold surface, he could tell it was metal. The surface was peculiar, with a soot-like appearance. Íosif wondered what metal it was supposed to be, he had never seen anything like it before. Perhaps he could take it home to get a better look when he was sober. Maybe he could take it into university and show a professor. They might know what it was.

Suddenly, Íosif's hand felt like it had been submerged under icy water and he gasped, dropping the metal to the pavement where it landed with a crash. The sensation intensified in his hand. It grew colder and colder as the initial sensation of icy water crept up his arm.

He cried out for help, afraid and confused. He could see his breath, despite the fact it was summer, as he grew more and more cold. Then pain erupted in his chest, sharp and hot, as something tore through his heart. Íosif's legs gave out and he fell to the ground, clutching his chest. He tried to grab onto the bench, but his hand slipped off.

Íosif was in shock, unable to process what was going on with his mind racing at light speed trying to simply understand but failing; what was that metal? Why did he feel so cold? Was it because of the metal? Was somebody there? Did they shoot him? Why?

Why was the bench covered in frost?

That was his last thought before what remained of his heart stopped beating.

...

"One last one, you can do this."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. I was just talking to myself."

"What are we going to do about the ordium? We can't take it on a flight."

"I have one stashed away back home, it's not a problem. We're going to Seattle, Washington next for the last one."

"Ian."

"Hm?"

"You're not killing them - not really."

"I know, I'm doing something worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah, I'm taking them away from everything they knew."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Montage of Heck**

Dylan rushed towards the staircase, his left foot pushing off the pavement for more momentum as he came closer. He grew approached the edge before taking his left foot and slamming it down on the tail of his skateboard before jumping into the air. He used this right foot to flick the nose, performing a kickflip.

He landed on the sidewalk, crouched on his deck and with his fingertips grazing concrete before standing up and regaining some of his lost balance. The skater twisted his hips and the board followed his movement, losing its momentum and coming to a complete halt. Dylan picked up his board, the grip tape rough against his skin.

It was thirty one inches in length from nose to tail and eight inches across, the standard measurements for street skating. On the underside was scuffed wheels, trucks, and axels along with the graphic that ran the full length of the underside. The graphic itself used to be a logo for Baker Skateboards, but over years of use it had torn away to reveal the wood underneath. Anything that remained was mostly covered in stickers, some of other skateboard brands or just plain vulgarity.

Dlyan was followed by his friend, Jason, who grinded down the metal railing using his deck. He landed smoothly, riding past Dylan with a smug smirk. In response, he just gave him the finger. Jason was the better of the two, he had to admit, but Dylan was determined to outperform him this time around.

The skater turned to his other friend, Tyler, who was at the top of the staircase with a camcorder in his hand. "Hey, Ty, did you get all that?" He inquired.

His friend gave him a thumbs up in response. "Hell yeah, that was sick."

"Lemme see." He replied.

Tyler complied, coming down and showing him the footage. Jason stood behind them, peeking over their shoulders to watch. "That's fuckin' solid." Dylan commented.

"Yeah, not enough to get the prize money though." Tyler responded.

The trio had entered a contest hosted by Thrasher under the name The Stooges. When Jason has proposed it, Dylan found himself enthusiastically on board with it, considering it a slap in the face to the teachers who called them that.

As for the contest, its aim was to highlight the skating scene in Seattle, Washington. With its temperate climate and not-so-friendly architecture for skating, it wasn't as large or as active as the one in California. However, Seattle was more hungry than its counterpart. Dylan and his friends had made a few videos and montages for Tyler's website in the past, so why not try to make some money out of it this time?

Fortunately for them, today was a beautiful summer day. The sky was clear of any clouds, the sun was beating down on them. Dylan always welcomed the rare chance to wear shorts and a t-shirt.

"Are we using a song for this?" Asked Jason.

Tyler answered. "Yeah dude. Lounge Act by Nirvana."

Dylan furrowed his brow. "Nirvana? Can't we use something a little more, y'know, skater? Like A Tribe Call Quest or somethin'."

"Yeah, but what's more Seattle than Nirvana?"

"Nirvana were from Aberdeen you dumb bitch!"

"They recorded their shit in _Seattle!" _

He paused for a second, hearing Jason giggling over his shoulder. Dylan threw his arms up in defeat. "Whatever. Nirvana sucks anyways - they're overrated as fuck." He huffed.

In response, his friend gave him a death stare.

Dylan couldn't help but smirk in mischievous triumph. He had achieved his desired result.

"Oooh, he's gonna kick your ass." Jason teased him.

The skater gave him a knowing, smug glance as he picked up his board and held it by its nose. "Yeah?" He started. Dylan looked over at the fuming Tyler, once again giving a devilish smirk. "He's gonna have to catch me first!"

Without skipping a beat, he whipped around and threw his skateboard in front of him. Dylan placed his right foot on the board, using his left to push off of the ground, and fled from his friend while giving a hearty laugh. The sound of two sets of wheels fell on his ears, letting him know his friends were following close behind him.

They skated down the Main Street, weaving between pedestrians while using any and all available architecture to perform tricks. There were plenty of benches, small art instillations, and other things to make use of. All Dylan had to do to navigate the busy street was lean backwards or forwards and his board would follow. The reason being that the trucks on the skater's deck were loose, perhaps more loose than most people had them. There was something so enthralling about the feeling that his board could suddenly turn against him at any moment if he wasn't paying attention. It was like it was a wild animal that Dylan had just barely tamed.

Suddenly, he noticed someone else skating. The two locked eyes and, in a moment of recognition, Dylan gave him a high five and a friendly smirk. The interaction started as quickly as it ended and the two skaters continued on their separate ways. Dylan didn't know who the guy was, but it didn't matter. Just by virtue of being another skater, he thought the guy was alright. Maybe one day they'd meet again.

The Stooges continued onwards with Tyler recording. Dylan glanced over to Jason for a brief moment, watching as he pulled off a frontside shove-it and grinded on a bench, his arms outstretched to give himself some balance. He felt a pang of envy, considering he always made extremely sloppy landings with shove-its. Jason made everything look so easy.

They were soon coming towards a cross roads. They could either continue on, crossing the street, or turn the corner. Dylan also noticed a car, parked besides a coffee shop. After a moment, he realised who the car belonged to and made a decision right then and there. The skater pushed forward, gaining speed before doing a simple ollie. He landed on the hood of the car, riding on it before landing on the road. From the sudden weight of Dylan's body on the car, its alarm began blaring. It was followed by the enraged swearing of the owner as the trio fled the scene.

"Godammit, Dylan. Did you have to do that?!" Tyler scorned.

"Because that was Mr. Costa's car," he replied simply. "He's an asshole."

"Wait, that was Mr. Costa's car?" Jason inquired. For a second, he looked behind to confirm for himself. "It is!"

Dylan nodded in response, "I swear to god, if you don't get biology he acts like you're retarded." He spat bitterly.

"Man, fuck that guy."

Even the thought of Mr. Costa's class caused anger to flare up in Dylan. The man had no patience for him, always kicking him out of his class at the slightest provocation. Sometimes, it just seemed like the teacher couldn't be bothered with him and would just send him out. Unsurprisingly, Dylan just stopped coming to class. Instead, he would hang out underneath the stairs to the second floor.

The skater didn't feel like he was missing out on anything. Dylan had one last year of highschool left after summer vacation, there was plenty of time to pick up the necessary credits to graduate. Plus, he had no interest in biology and it wasn't like it was going to be his major at college. If he even did go to college, that is.

Tyler grimaced, "Thank god I never had him, then. But still, you're an asshole for doing that."

"So?" Retorted Dylan, raising an eyebrow.

"So?" He echoed. "So be a bigger man, Dylan!"

The skater shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly in response. He didn't see it as a big deal considering how petty the teacher had been. It was well deserved.

The three continued their endeavours, recording stunts and tricks as well as recording anything they said or did the others found funny. They moved away from the hustle and bustle of the Main Street, opting for some more quiet areas.

In all honesty, Dylan preferred this. He didn't have to focus on not accidentally crashing into someone, either because he wasn't paying attention or wiped out after attempting a trick, all he had to be concerned about was himself and his board. So that's what he did, casually riding down the street and popping ollies and kick flips casually.

The street they were currently on was unlike the busy Main Street. There was barely anything to use as leverage for tricks, save for a couple of benches and whatnot. Despite the wide open sidewalk, there was nothing interesting about it. So, Dylan continued on with a bored expression. Jason had stop trying to show off, too, and Tyler held his camcorder idly by his side.

But just then, Dylan caught a glimpse of a staircase off to his side and his interest was newly invigorated. "Hey, Tyler!" he called out. "Start recording!" He made a mad dash for the stair case. It was a chance to one up Jason and he would be damned if he missed out on it. Already, he was picking out what exactly he was going to do immediately after landing. If there was rails, he would grind on them. Otherwise, he'd use the air time to perform tricks.

"Shit! Dylan, wait!" Jason cried.

But it was too late. The skater was already in the air, having jumped without even looking at the stairs. When he did look, realising how far the stairs went down dozens of flights, there was a tight feeling in his gut and his blood ran cold. He was far beyond the point of no return. Dylan simply had to accept he was in for a world of hurt.

When Dylan did land, the back wheels of his board caught the edge of a step and lost all of its momentum. He, however, wasn't so lucky. The skater was catapulted, tumbling down step after step at an astonishing rate. The world span around him in a mix of orange bricks, graffiti, and grey concrete. He landed in a crumpled heap with his face in the ground and his body thumping with dull pain. All Dylan could do was lay there, stunned.

The sound of hurried steps and terrified voices fell on his ears.

"Ohshitohshitohshit! Do you think he's okay?"

"Okay?! Dude, he just wiped the fuck out!"

Suddenly, someone began gently shaking his shoulder.

"Dylan, you good?" Came Tyler's wavering voice.

He answered with a slight strain in his voice, "yeah." He replied, slowly sitting up. The skater felt something wet and warm drip down from his eyebrow. Dylan raised his hand to his brow, pulling it back and inspecting it. The tip of his fingers were covered in blood. Turning to the two of his friends, he asked, "do you guys have a handkerchief or something?"

They both shook their heads in response. Sighing, Dylan removed his shirt and used it to wipe his forehead, staining the blue fabric a deep crimson. After he was done, he stood up to his full height and wrapped the bloody shirt around his waist. Skateboarding was a fully body workout, and unsurprisingly Dylan had reaped the benefits of a toned and defined body. Both his friends stared at him in disbelief.

"Are we gonna stand here all day or what? Let's keep going!" He exclaimed with impatience.

Jason gave a relieved laugh. "Dude."

"What?"

"You just ate mad shit and you're _still _good enough to skate?"

Dylan's features twisted in confusion and exasperation. "Duh?" he responded. "It wasn't that bad."

"Dylan, fucking look!" Tyler exclaimed, pointing towards the top of the stairs. "Look how far away that is and you _fell _from there!"

He protested with an exasperated tone. "I'm fine."

The truth was just that. Dylan felt fine. The aches and pains in his body had all but subsided, despite the lengthy fall. A part of him felt that he should be worse for wear - much worse. It was like the incident with the half pipe.

Jason look at him in both amusement and disbelief. "Dylan Falkirk, just what the fuck are you?" He gave his friend a half smile.

He shrugged in response with a smirk on his face. "Just fuckin' tough, I guess."

"I dunno how the hell you just bounce back from stuff like this. Remember the half pipe? That was gnarly." Tyler commented, wincing at the memory.

Jason also grimaced. "Yeah, you should've split your head wide open, man. Like that was easily a ten foot drop and you landed on your head - without a helmet, too."

Again, Dylan shrugged. He agreed that he was extremely lucky to be alive, let alone walk away with only a mild concussion. But he couldn't answer the question concerning why he always seemed to be fine, even after cringe-worthy tumbles like the one that just took place. The skater just chalked it up to luck.

Suddenly, there was a voice from behind him. "Hey, are you alright? That was a nasty fall."

Dylan turned around, finding a man staring at them. He had short, black hair and concerned, green eyes along with stubble. He was pretty tall too with a fit build, he noticed, standing at a height of 6'2. Three inches taller than the skater was. "Yeah, man. Never been better." The skater answered.

The man gave him a sincere smile and, without another word, walked off. What Dylan found perplexing was that he seemed sad somehow. Perhaps there was something going on in his personal life.

Tyler commented. "The was weird."

Both Dylan and Jason nodded in agreement. Then, Jason turned to him. "Please tell me you got him wiping out on camera."

The Stooges quickly put the interaction behind them, continuing to skate like nothing had happened. After a while, they concluded that they had gathered enough footage worthy of being in the montage. Now, they were just skating leisurely. Eventually the sun began to set and they decided to call it a day. The Stooges split apart, going their own ways home.

Lazily, Dylan pushed his foot off of the concrete as he rolled along with his hands in his pocket and his shadow stretching out in front of him. Whenever he came upon a crack in the sidewalk, he would pop a Chinese nollie. Possibly the most easy and least demanding trick he could do. The scent of sea salt was fresh in the air as he passed the bay, the ocean breeze sweeping through his brown hair.

He looked over to the water, watching as the orange rays of the setting sun danced and bounced off its surface. The skater contemplated about just sitting for a minute and enjoying the view, which he eventually caved into doing. As dreary and as rainy as Seattle could be, it was worth it when you got sights like this. After he had his fill, he was about to get back on his board until his foot it something.

The object rolled around on the concrete, clinking and clanking with each movement before eventually coming to a stop. At first, Dylan though it was some kind of rock and was about to ignore it. He soon realised, however, it wasn't any kind of stone - it was metal.

The lump of metal was around the size of his hand with a dull, black surface like it had been caught in a fire. He picked it up, noticing that it was warm to the touch. Had someone been holding it? Nonchalantly, Dylan threw it up in the air and caught it as it landed. He found it cool though, maybe he would keep it.

Immediately, he hissed in surprise and dropped it as an electric shock coursed through his palm. The skater had experienced static shocks in the past, just as anyone had, but this was different. It had hurt. It was like a current of electricity lept up from the metal and into his hand.

His gut began to tighten and his heart beat faster and faster as he felt something building in him. Something inside was about to break free. His whole boy was suddenly covered in strange, glowing blue lines like some bioluminescent parasite that had burrowed inside him. Just as quickly as they appeared, the majority disappeared save for those in his arms.

But Dylan soon realised that the glow wasn't from lines on his body, but rather from inside him. It was his nerves. Suddenly, sparks of electricity jumped from his hands and arms, forming brief arcs as they jumped from one limb to the next. The smell of sea salt had been overridden by the smell of burning ozone choking his nostrils.

Dylan cried out in panic, the primal aspect of his mind screaming to get away from the sparks. He stumbled backwards, calling out for help, as the arcs of electricity became more prominent and more vicious. The electricity from one of his arms lurched away from him, drawn to a nearby car. It surged through the vehicle, travelling through all its conductive parts and finding its way into the fuel tank.

The car exploded, the thunderous roar deafened Dlyan as the heat slammed into him like a tidal wave. The shockwave knocked him back. His skin was blistered and red, and his ears were ringing, but he was still alive. The skater struggled to his feet, the sparks of electricity dancing in his vision. His breathing was ragged, shallow, and fast.

His mind was racing, confused and hysterical, but he knew he had to hide. He had to get away from the carnage and lay low. But suddenly, something black and sticky slammed into him and sent him tumbling backwards, almost falling to the ground. He could feel the unbearable heat of the burning wreckage against his back.

Once again, something vicious slammed into his body. He could no longer move his arms as they were stuck against his chest, which was covered in some kind of black ooze. Dylan desperately thrashed, hoping to break free but to no avail.

Then, the world went black.

...

Ian watched as the boy's head jerked backwards as his shadow bullet passed through his skull, his body crumpling into a heap just as it had earlier when he had fallen down that flight of stairs. His body was shaking, his breathing heavy and uneven.

The man's heart thumped against his chest as anxiety bubbled inside of him. The explosion of the car had brought back some vivid, unwanted memories. Ian has to suppress them the best he could for now before the guilt and shame began to creep in. Not just from years prior, but from his most recent actions.

Ian swept a hand through his dark hair, his green eyes darting back and forth. People would soon come to investigate, fearing the worst as they called the emergency services. He had to leave - now.

"C'mon, Cat. We gotta go." he said, turning to his partner.

Catrame Inchiostro, his partner and best friend, was a short, slim man. His chin-length, platinum blond hair billowed in the wind. He looked only mildly startled by the events that had just unfolded. Catrame's blue eyes locked with his and he nodded silently.

The duo made their escape. While he managed to keep it under control, Ian felt panic twist and turn in his gut as he heard police sirens in the distance. But soon enough, they were far enough away from the scene to where law enforcement wasn't a concern.

Neither was the fact that people would have definitely seen them run away from the murder. Ian felt a pang of disgust at the word. Murder. No matter how he or Catrame tried to rationalise it, that they had never truly killed those four guys or that there was no other way, he couldn't see it for anything else but murder.

Their run had slowed down to a walk. The pair acted inconspicuously, blending in with the hustle and bustle of Seattle's Main Street before they turned down an alley. Ian's nose wrinkled at the harsh, sour smell. Once they were confident nobody would see them, they began to scale the wall.

Catrame's hands excreted a thick, vicious tar which allowed him to stick to the slimy brick wall and climb. As for Ian, he used black and shadowy tendrils to effortlessly scale the side of the building. They both made it onto the rooftop.

Ian leaned against a chimney, sitting down. Catrame sat across from him, holding his knees close to his body. "Now what?" he asked.

Ian sighed, looking off into the distance. Seattle's skyline was definitely interesting, with its mostly medium-sized building and the occasional tall one. Along with the space needle, of course. Everything seemed so tranquil in the sunset. The fear and panic he was once fighting was now quelled.

"We sit here," Ian responded. "See what happens."

Again, he looked off to the skyline and shifted in anticipation. "We're so close, Cat," he said lowly, an edge of excitement in his voice. "I can't believe it!"

Catrame offered a small, heartfelt smile of his own. However, it suddenly transformed to a scowl. It didn't take long for Ian to understand why, feeling a presence amoung them. Something ghastly began to materialise and form close to them. As it began to take shape, it was distinctly feline-shaped.

It looks like it was time.


End file.
